


Malora Gray

by aohatsu



Category: Marvel 616, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/F, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23459128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: In hindsight, slipping her hand into the purse of the absolutely gorgeous woman in front of her in the coffee line wasn’t the stealthiest of moves. But Peter’s never been very good at impulse control, and shiny things are, well,shiny. Besides, Peter is fast enough that getting caught is a hilarious idea – just, as if. Never going to happen.Except that, you know, she got caught.
Relationships: Felicia Hardy/Peter Maximoff
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10
Collections: Robot Rainbow 2020





	Malora Gray

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VampirePaladin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampirePaladin/gifts).



> This was a challenge for me! I'm not super familiar with the source material. That being said, it was super fun and I'm glad I had to ~branch out a little. I hope you like it!
> 
> Timeline is fucked; Peter's age is unspecified beyond 'teenager'.
> 
> The lovely [GlassesOfJustice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassesOfJustice) took the time to beta for me! ♥♥♥

In hindsight, slipping her hand into the purse of the absolutely gorgeous woman in front of her in the coffee line wasn’t the stealthiest of moves. But Peter’s never been very good at impulse control, and shiny things are, well, _shiny_. Besides, Peter is fast enough that getting caught is a hilarious idea – just, as if. Never going to happen.

Except that, you know, she got caught.

“You’re precious,” the woman says, arms crossed over her chest. She’s smirking, and Peter thinks she knows what she’ll be thinking about later tonight when the house is empty and she needs an orgasm before going to sleep. The cleavage on this—

“Hand it over, let’s go,” the woman says again, gesturing expectantly for the shiny piece of jewelry—it seems to be a very firm, solid piece of silver metal with a clasp that makes Peter think it might be a fancy necklace or something.

“Finders keepers,” Peter responds, shrugging. Too quick for the as-of-yet-nameless-yet-still-very-much-masturbation-material woman to stop her, Peter lifts the silver necklace and snaps it into place around her neck.

The woman raises a low eyebrow, then sets down her latte carefully.

“You’re cute, I suppose. I like the hair, even if it is short. I might not be entirely, ah, stable, let’s say, but even I’ll have a hard time just leaving a cute thing like you to your fate.”

Peter should just leave already—she could be behind the counter, make herself a latte, grab a raspberry muffin and be home in time for, well. Actually, there’s nothing really on her to-do list besides ‘get coffee,’ ‘steal shiny thing,’ and ‘enjoy the attention of the woman with legs that go on for miles’. Surprisingly or maybe not so surprisingly, Peter stays put.

“What fate?”

“Oh, that collar you just clipped around your neck actually belongs to me – which means now, so do you. My very own kitten. It’s not exactly how I saw today ending up, but I’ll take it.”

Peter vaguely wonders if she’s being hit on, or she’d picked a local crazy-lady to steal a shiny necklace from during her morning coffee run.

“Right, I’m going to head off—see you never!”

Peter doesn’t wait for a response; she’s bored already. She runs—and then stumbles, a wave of vertigo slamming into her, sending her stomach roiling. Her knees hit the ground, and her hands scrape against the linoleum floor. Everything in the shop blurs; she can barely breathe. She feels like she’s about to be sick.

“Oh, honey,” the woman says, and then taps a heel impatiently. “You can’t leave. Didn’t I tell you? You belong to me. That collar… it’s more than a pretty piece of jewelry.” She crouches down and reaches out to touch Peter’s face, tilting her chin up with one finger, the sharp nail biting into Peter’s skin. “It’s a mystical artifact.”

Her voice sounds like velvet, and Peter swallows, listening.

“It’s meant to guarantee the consummation of a queen’s wedding night.” She smirks, and leans forward, so close that Peter can feel the warmth of her breath on her face. “I don’t think you really want to know what happens if you don’t,” she gets quieter, “follow,” her mouth is so close to Peter’s now it’s nearly a whisper, sending chills down Peter’s spine, “the rules.”

She tosses her head as she straightens back up and grabs her latte, wrapping her fingers around the cup. Her long, bright white hair drapes across her shoulders. Slowly—so slowly it hurts, Peter can’t—she hates anything slow—Peter gets up, her stomach still feeling like she just got off the worst roller coaster ever invented.

“Come on, kitten,” she says. “Up you get. Let Felicia make it all better again.”

Peter flushes. She can feel the heat rising in her face and swirling in her gut, the warmth sinking low and oh no. She clenches her thighs together. There’s something not normal going on right now; she might be a teenager who thinks about sex once every forty-five seconds statistically (okay, fine, _point_ forty-five seconds in her case) but _getting wet_ because of an absolutely gorgeous, _fuck_ , stranger calling her kitten is just—over the top. Ridiculous. Batshit _insane_.

“We’re—you’re saying I’m _stuck_ with you? Until I _have sex_?”

“Don’t worry, I plan to fix that,” she pauses, giving Peter another long look, and Peter suddenly wishes she was wearing something that wasn’t skinny jeans and a baggy sweatshirt that her mom says belonged to her father but was actually bought from the bargain bin at the Army Surplus store, “very soon.”

Peter follows her through the coffee shop, pressing past a man in a business suit and a teenager with headphones in. It’s only partly because it feels like she’s being led by a leash, the collar around her throat digging into her skin and pulling her forward with every step. Part of it’s also the fact that the way Felicia—that’s her name, Felicia, it fits really well—is walking makes her ass look _incredible_.

When Felicia locks the door, Peter takes a quick second to contemplate the fact that she really, really needs to work on controlling her impulses (and never, ever, put on stolen jewelry without checking the damn tag first).

Although, actually, if this actually ends with her punching her V-Card, maybe she should be stealing jewelry all the time.

“I’m Peter,” Peter says, and, yeah, that’d be the nerves talking. “Oh my God, we’re going so slow.” If she was by herself, she’d have come already. Twice.

“I think you need to work on patience, kitten. Peter, is it? Odd name for a cute thing like you.”

Peter shrugs. Her mom had expected a boy, been too high on something-or-other at the hospital to realize she’d had a girl instead. The name stuck, thankfully. She could have been a Petra, or a Petronella, or God forbid, a Pietro.

Peter was just fine.

Unhelpfully, her brain kicks in _kitten is pretty nice too_.

“OhmyGodwhatishappeningthisistheabsolute _worst_ ,” Peter yells, grabbing at the collar and tugging ineffectually. Her whole body feels hot, and her legs are—they’re shaking, what the _fuck_.

Felicia smirks, and suddenly—except how can it be _suddenly_ when Peter watches as Felicia absolutely _prowls_ her way over and presses her hands against Peter’s stomach, slipping underneath her sweatshirt, pushing until Peter’s back hits the hard wall? It’s weird, so fucking weird, but _suddenly_ somehow fits as a descriptor.

Peter stares at her with wide eyes, having to look up the inch difference in their heights. Felicia’s lips are very, very red, her tongue pink and wet where it slips out as she speaks. “Now tell me,” she says in a slow, measuring – teasing, _teasing_ – tone, “do you want my fingers, or my mouth?”

Peter’s mind whites out, completely freezing. Ohgodohgodohgodoh **god** thiscannotbe _happening_.

“Your _mouth_ ,” she says, her body all tensed up. Fuck, if this is a dream she might as well have the _best_ fucking dream _ever_.

Felicia laughs, and then Peter’s arms are in the air and her sweatshirt is being lifted over her head, leaving her bare from the waist up because it isn’t exactly like she’s well-endowed, not like the woman in front of her, she didn’t need a bra for a quick coffee run in a two-sizes-too-large sweatshirt. She shivers at the sudden cold, despite the way her skin is flushed pink with heat.

“Mm,” Felicia says, sliding—scraping—her nails along Peter’s soft belly, up and up until she’s cupping Peter’s breast. “See? I knew you were cute.”

“OhgodIcan’tbelievethishappeningohmy—” she’s cut off when Felicia takes the nipple between her fingers and applies pressure, a stinging sensation that shoots through Peter’s entire body and straight down between her legs, making her pussy throb with want and her head snap backward, slamming into the wall.

She nearly cringes at the sharp pain, except then the fingers are gone and something smooth and wet has replaced them. She reaches up, her fingers tangling into soft, white hair. “Please,” Peter says, and then again, and again, and again, because she can’t—

Her hips are bucking up against Felicia’s body, but the position isn’t right, it isn’t helping at all, and all she can feel is the heat of Felicia’s wet mouth on her breasts, the hard press of her nails against Peter’s skin, holding her in place.

The collar around her neck is vibrating, putting off heat like nobody’s business. Peter’s positive it’ll leave a friction burn, but honestly, she couldn’t care less right then.

“—fuckpleaseohmyGod—”

“Shh,” Felicia murmurs, breath hot against Peter’s wet nipples, making Peter’s whole body jerk with pleasure and an undeniable, aching need. “Slow down, kitten. We’ll get you there.”

“I can’t,” Peter whines, the idea of slowing down, slowing down more than she already has, this fucking intolerable pace of _normal fucking slow people_. It’s killing her, it’s untenable, she _can’t_.

“Then I suppose we’ll have to speed up,” Felicia says, and pops open the button on Peter’s jeans.

Peter cannot wait for this—this slow, torturous stripping routine. She kicks off her jeans and sneakers and ratty old underwear, throwing them off before Felicia’s even aware that she’s moved. Peter reaches up, completely naked, and desperately pushes her mouth against Felicia’s, needing it more than she can articulate slowly enough to be understandable, more than she even needs to breathe.

The slide of their lips, the taste of cinnamon and coffee on Felicia’s mouth. Her legs wobble, and she feels so wet she’s surprised it hasn’t started leaking down her thighs the way her mother’s erotic harlequins promise it should. Fuck, she needs Felicia to touch her.

The collar feels tight against her throat, hot like it’s burning her up.

A choked moan falls out of her mouth, her hands grasping at Felicia, at whatever parts of her she can reach. Soft, supple leather underneath her fallen coat, and even softer, warm skin under that, her breasts big and soft enough to hold.

“Good, use your mouth, kitten,” Felicia says, only it isn’t a request, it’s an order, and one that Peter’s more than willing to follow.

 _Now_ , Peter’s brain supplies, _your thighs are wet._

She’s a goddamn mess, and she keens at the thought. She pants, resting her forehead between Felicia’s breasts. “Please,” she begs, and the collar is so tight now that the word comes out as a rasping gasp.

Felicia digs her nails into Peter’s hips, pressing her ass against the wall as she falls to her knees and presses her face right up against Peter’s cunt. One hand slides down, pushing between her shaking, barely-still-standing (they would have given up on gravity entirely if not for the help of the wall she’s leaning on, she knows) to hold her folds open, giving Felicia’s mouth—andohmyfuckingGodher _tongue_ —access to drive Peter absolutely crazy.

Her hands scrape uselessly at the wall, at Felicia’s shoulders, through her hair, over her own face. She feels out of control, everything so slow, and not enough, but so good, if it was just more, just—harder—

The feeling of it, of the slow, tongue licking into her and pushing right up against her clitoris, she’s—she’s almost—

She sobs, choking on it from how tight the collar is. She’s desperately holding her hard against her cunt, silently begging her not to stop, pleaseGodnotnownotyetholyfuckit’sa _precipice_ it’slikedivingoffa _cliff_ Mom’sfuckingharlequinswere _right_ whattheeverloving ** _fuck_** —

She sags against the wall, finally, after the longest, slowest, motherfucking best orgasm of her life. Peter’s legs finally give up on standing, and she slides to the floor. Felicia steps back, straightening and wiping the wetness—Peter’s come, she thinks, dazedly—off her cheek with her thumb, sucking it into her mouth.

The collar, without warning, clicks open and falls from Peter’s neck. It hits the floor with a clang.

“Wow,” she says—or tries to. Her voice is tight and hoarse, and her throat hurts. She reaches up to touch it with her fingers and flinches at the spark of pain from where she presses against the burn.

Felicia touches her face, fingernails deadly sharp and tantalizing. Peter blinks up at her.

“I think I’ll keep you.” She smiles, then tilts her head. “Well? Your turn, kitten.”


End file.
